Song for Sophia (6 page)

Sophia could not resist a wide smile; it was all she could do to avoid laughing outright again. No use letting him think he had thoroughly charmed her. “Then what is it you demand, aside from teaching your nieces?”

“Your company, anytime I ask for it. And … an illusion.” He explained, “Surely you noticed I mean to give the impression you are my mistress. It is the simplest explanation to present to the household and the best way I can protect you.” He said it experimentally, but his eyes watched with a hawkish intensity. She was careful to show no reaction to his suggestion that she needed protection.

“Fair enough.”
Pretend
to be a ladybird? Sophia was willing to do far worse than appear to behave wickedly for the sake of her safety.

“Depending on the situation, I may introduce you as my paramour, fiancée, or even wife. And you will smile and play the part, something you do well.”

A man who only wanted to
appear
attached to a woman? She could only think of one reason why, but she would never dare ask. Instead she teased, “You sound like a spymaster.”

Wilhelm chuckled. “Clever female. Too clever, but that is why I like you.”

His expression invited no argument. “My secrets in exchange for yours. Deal.”

He ducked to kiss her temple and let silence hang between them until they reached the west wing. They passed the master suite, then Wilhelm halted and unlocked the next door. The Red Suite, the luxurious apartments of the non-existent Lady Devon. Sophia followed him inside, knowing there was no going back.

Chapter 6

Why Rum Is Henceforth Banned At Rougemont

Lord Devon still had not said a word. He lounged in the window seat overlooking the west courtyard. Long minutes, perhaps a quarter hour — a long time for silence. It seemed he hardly blinked or even moved. Sophia reclined on a settee, studying the sitting room fit for a queen. Scarlet velvet drapes framed tall windows, marble tile veined in black and red shared the floor with Persian rugs like the ones she admired in the music room. Dramatic mahogany furniture gave the room its somber Rococo style. Elegant but serious, a space she could relax in. The enormous canopied bed called to her,
feather stuffed — hallelujah!

The painted friezes of Roman goddesses and their lovers chasing each other across the ceiling put her in a maudlin mood. Sophia was all too aware of the far door of the bedchamber connecting to Lord Devon’s —
Wilhelm’s
, she corrected herself — dressing room. Of course it would stay locked, but she would think far too often of who slept on the other side.

Finally he turned and stared, and she felt conspicuous. His gaze raked over her, a slow study with a hint of erotic interest belying his even expression. Why did he do that? She stared back, blatantly studying him in return, but the brazenness seemed lost on him.

Wilhelm looked striking, cast half in light and half in shadow. His coloring was subdued; as though God had not dared paint such a grim, ferocious man with frivolous colors. Storm gray eyes, sharp rather than brilliant. Careless waves of collar-length hair a sandy blond that had probably grown darker as he matured. And
mature
was the word. His thirty-some-odd years had not been kind. He looked excessively weather-beaten and scarred for a lord. He was essentially too much. Too handsome, domineering, far too interesting.

“I feel wary of you as well, Rosalie.”

“You see too much, Wilhelm.”

“I am often told that, in variations.”

“What were you thinking of just now? You seemed deep in concentration.”

He shook his head. “We deal in secrets, you and I. Tell me one of yours, and I’ll tell one of mine.”

“All right. Well, I once ran naked down Rue de Jardinet at midnight. I was drunk and lost a wager.”

Oh, that beguiling half-smile! One side of his mouth pulled up, carving a dimple in one cheek while the other side set in a smirk. It made him look like a mischievous pirate. She could grow accustomed to teasing that smile out of him.

“Interesting, Rosalie, but it must be the one I ask for.”

“What do you want to know?” His gaze bore into hers, and she felt as naked as she had that wild night in Paris, but painfully sober.

“What sort of foe do I protect you from?” Before she could object he added, “The truth, please, or I will know. And if you won’t give names, at least tell me what we are up against.”

We
. We? Since when did they become
we
?

Wilhelm unfolded himself and stalked to the settee, kneeling directly in front of her where she couldn’t escape the cold fire burning in the facets of his eyes. Up close he was mesmerizing.

“You are hiding from the law … . No. You’ve been wronged. Betrayed. Ah, yes — a truth. By your husband? No. Someone else in your family.” His gaze scanned her face as though her entire history was written there. “And you are very, very frightened. But I see such ruthlessness in you. You are ready to fight. You expect it. And that resolve was instilled in you by a great deal of hardship.”

Sophia turned away before he guessed everything else. “Stop that.”

“I apologize.”

“What, are you a gypsy fortune teller? How do you do that? I didn’t say a word.”

“Your face did. Your eyes hardened when I mentioned betrayal. You swallow when you are angry. And your pupils dilate when I guess the truth, but you blink when I am wrong. Otherwise, you are admirably demure. Never fear, you would fool all but the best.”

“And you are the best?”

Wilhelm smiled, and she hoped he wouldn’t do it often — it was blinding. Wearing a true smile, he went from roughly handsome to devastating. “You said so, not me. Now your turn. Ask.”

“Why do you offer me such freedom? To a stranger?”

“Some reasons I may tell you later — I don’t wish to frighten you. But primarily, I like you. I suppose I trust you.”

“You
suppose
?”

“Instinctually — I am seldom wrong. Why, should I not trust you?”

“Not for a moment.” She tried to smile but couldn’t manage it.

“Now that,” he leaned in to peck a kiss to her temple, “was honest. Do come down for dinner at the bell. Half past six, but I suppose you already know that. And wear something fit for a lady.”

And then he was gone, leaving her left temple aflame with the memory of his lips on her skin. For the first time in her life, she found herself interested in a man who clearly didn’t want her at all. Surprising how that stung. Petty how she reassured herself,
He prefers men — it must be true. Is that not the way of it, that the most appealing are out of reach?
She had met scores like him among the demi-monde in Paris, Athens, Venice; some overtly deviant and others, like Lord Devon, seemed entirely masculine. The alternative possibility, that he consorted with women but she simply didn’t inspire his passion, bothered her far more than she would admit.

• • •

“Whatever is the matter, dear?”

Sophia desperately wanted to scramble from the dining room in a panic and barely registered Aunt Louisa’s flat tone. She could not eat a single bite of the cake before her. Cold shivers chased dread through her limbs.

The moment she realized she was cornered and the sharp bloom of panic exploding in her chest. Restrained and powerless as he slammed her against the wall, again and again until her vision blurred. Grasping, scratching, desperate to defend herself but her fingers sliding on sweat-slicked flesh, hairy strong limbs. Futility. Sickening dread. His panting and grunting in
her ear. Gagging with every gust of his putrid rum breath, the horror of choking when everything depended on being able to scream —

Maple rum, maple rum … mixed with the stench of congealed blood, manure, and crushed petals.

Her stomach heaved and her ears told her someone had given her a container just in time. Her eyes squeezed shut as though she could banish the tactile sensations of the memory if she pushed them farther from her mind.

“Rosalie. Breathe.” A gentle hand rubbed warm circles down her back.

“Oh, damn it all,” she muttered despite herself. Sophia forced her eyes open and saw the bottom half of furniture and a curtain of gold damask — the tablecloth. She sat under the dining room table, cradled in Lord Devon’s lap. He called out quietly and another voice responded, and as he leaned forward she realized he was handing a sorbet dish filled with rather disgusting contents to a footman, who retrieved it and left. By the sound of the quick footsteps following, Aunt Louisa fled the scene as well.

Sophia squirmed and he let her go. Instead of crawling out, Lord Devon shifted and leaned his back against the thick column of the table support, sliding down and ducking his head so he fit. His outstretched legs framed hers as she sat between his knees, but it was hardly the most inappropriate or bizarre aspect of the situation.

“So you don’t like rum. Or was it Monsieur Girard’s maple rum cake? I must agree it was a bit soggy.” He reached his hand past the tablecloth, blindly palming the surface of the table. He knocked something over before producing her wine glass.

She pulled deep swallows, trying to chase away the bitter aftertaste in her mouth as well as the residual horror still kicking her heartbeat into double time. She tried to take the glass from Lord Devon and hold it herself but realized she was shaking and his help prevented her from spilling the wine down the front of her dress.

“Breathe deeply, Rosalie, and your pulse will calm,” came his mesmerizing low voice. “When your heart calms, your hands will stop shaking.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. Sophia covered her face with her hands and slumped over. “I have a very sincere apology on the tip of my tongue, but it sounds inadequate and I haven’t even begun.”

“Forget it.” Then he simply sat, doing nothing. The silence ticked by without expectation or tension. That soothed her, too.

Finally she blurted, “I am so sorry, Wilhelm. I had no idea I would be stricken in such a way, or I would not have put us all in such an embarrassing position.”

“You froze and started gasping — symptoms of poisoning. I am only glad it is not that.”

“This sounds absurd, but the scent of the rum touched a foul memory and sent me reeling.”

“And I thought it was some elaborate scheme to get rid of Aunt Louisa.” He nudged her knee with his. “It worked. Well done.”

“In case forty-five minutes of stiff conversation didn’t already do it, I am sure I have won her over now.”

“Well, that is the last time we serve rum dishes at Rougemont. Care to explain your trouble?”

“No.”

“Very well. Why don’t you join Aunt Louisa in the music room?”

Sophia would have thought he was punishing her, but Wilhelm handed her out from under the table and supported her so gently, she sensed no ire. In fact, he had been remarkably sanguine about the entire episode.

He paused at the doorway and smoothed stray tendrils of her hair. “We are more alike than you know, Rosalie. I am also … . haunted. I would never mean you harm, ever. But at times I don’t always know where I am, that is … . I believe I see one thing but it is, ah … .” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Run away. When I seem not myself, or if I frighten you, leave me be.”

“Run away? What — ”

Wilhelm kissed her temple again and left her inside the music room to fend for herself with an incensed Aunt Louisa.

“Are you quite recovered, Mrs. Cooper?”

“Yes, thank you.” She expected no quarter from Aunt Louisa.

She expected correctly.

“What are you about, Mrs. Cooper?” Aunt Louisa’s hands perched on the arms of a wingback chair, her posture like a portrait of an arrogant King Henry sitting on the throne.

“I am sure I do not grasp your meaning.”

“What do you want with my nephew Lord Devon?”

Sophia carefully kept her inflection even to avoid the impression of sarcasm. “Nothing at all, to be quite clear.”

“Balderdash. You are his mistress?”

“I am whatever Lord Devon says.”

“And what does he say?”

“Today, I am the governess.”

Aunt Louisa looked her over with an arched brow. “Are you expecting?”

“N — no!” Sophia choked, “Good heavens, no.”

“Good. Because no babe in your belly, not even his own, would snare him. Years ago Lord Devon entailed all his titles and lands to Philip Cavendish, his nephew.”

The urge to gape nearly won out, but Sophia managed a nod with her mouth closed and her expression set in polite interest. “That is none of my business of course, but I presume Lord Devon manages his affairs with acuity.”

Aunt Louisa leveled her penetrating stare at Sophia. “You are strange, Mrs. Cooper. I shall figure you out anon. Meanwhile, allow me to warn you: Lord Devon is a good man, but he is not your
Mr. Darcy
. I guarantee you will not abide the symptoms of his suffering. I predict you will run afraid before the month is out. The sooner the better.”

Before Sophia uttered a word, Aunt Louisa leaned forward and lowered her voice. “But if you injure him, play him false — wrong him in any way, I shall see to it personally that you regret it.”

Lord Devon barged through the doors of the music room. Judging by his expression, he hadn’t heard his aunt’s threat. He kissed Aunt Louisa’s hand, and Sophia assumed his gesture for her would be the same, but instead he pulled her out of her seat and into the sofa then sat next to her. Right next to her, with his thigh pressing along the length of hers. He leaned back in a casual pose and draped his arm across the back of the sofa, framing her shoulders. Perhaps she was playing the mistress tonight.

“Wilhelm, darling,” Aunt Louisa chimed, all trace of fire-breathing gone. “Just now Mrs. Cooper and I were engaged in a fascinating discussion about Naval history. Remind me, when was the Battle of the Sluys?”

“June the twenty-fourth, the year thirteen-forty.”

Sophia was completely lost, but sensed an attack from Aunt Louisa.

“What day was that?”